


Five Kisses

by dragonflies_and_dalmatians



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonflies_and_dalmatians/pseuds/dragonflies_and_dalmatians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they kiss, its a nightmare. One-shot set some time after 2.06 but before 2.12</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Kisses

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The Walking Dead belongs to AMC and Robert Kirkman, I just wrote this for fun with no copyright infringement intended.

The first time they kiss, it’s a nightmare. 

She knows that people say that about bad kisses all the time: “He kissed me ... and it was a nightmare.” But the kiss isn’t the nightmare. The kiss is actually pretty good under the circumstances. But the first time they kiss, it literally is in a nightmare, far worse than anything she’s ever had before because it’s so real.

The dream starts off innocuously enough, one of those dreams that’s so realistic that you can’t actually tell whether or not it’s a dream or not. They’re driving in Daryl’s truck, talking about nothing until they hit a subdivision. Its then that Andrea knows it’s a dream because it’s the same subdivision she and Shane explored during the search for Sophia. It’s even hot in her dream, just as it was during that disastrous recon mission and even though she and Daryl brought back a truckload of winter gear from the nearest outdoors store just the other day.

It plays out with almost depressing similarity, and Andrea’s a little disappointed in her own subconscious that it can’t fashion something more original from her memories. She thought she was more inventive than that. They drive through the subdivision at the same speed and park in the same spot that Shane parked his hideous green Hyundai. They go through the same house and find the same hole and the same garage full of charred bodies and inside Andrea’s screaming at herself to either wake up or for her dream self to do something, anything that’s different. Daryl even says the same things as Shane; the words sound all kinds of wrong coming out of his mouth and as he speaks them she can see now just how wrong they sound, period.

She’s cringing inside when her treacherous hand sneaks across the space between the two front seats and grabs Daryl’s crotch, but, she soon realises, because this dream is a repeat of her encounter with Shane, Daryl reacts exactly as Shane did. To be sure, she’s got no way of knowing that Daryl wouldn’t have responded in the same way, but something tells her that he might have crashed the car in shock rather than asking her to climb aboard and she feels almost cheap when she does because deep down she knows that this isn’t him and it isn’t her, either. There’s no way he’d act like this if this were the real world and the fact that Shane did only serves to underline the differences between the two men.

He kisses her then, his mouth probing and aggressive, seeking and demanding entry and she arches into his touch. He feels and tastes different to Shane though. His smell is different and his lips are thinner and his stubble burns across her face and when his hands gently trail up her spine to rest on her shoulder blades, she feels as though she’s coming apart at the seams.

“God,” She moans into his neck, moving backwards to undo their jeans. She definitely doesn’t remember enjoying her time with Shane as much as she’s enjoying this. When she opens her eyes, fully expecting to see blue eyes hazed dark with lust, just as they were a few moments ago, she yelps in shock. 

Daryl’s gone and its Shane in front of her, his large hands splayed out against her shoulder blades it feels so, so wrong. 

“Jesus!” She jerks backwards so fast she cracks the windshield. She closes her eyes once, praying that when she opens them, either Shane will be gone and Daryl will be there, or she’ll wake up. 

When she opens her eyes, its worse. So much worse. 

Its Jim; Jim, who was last seen leaning against the tree by the side of the highway, muttering about seeing his family, a gushing infection wiping out his mind as much as his body, taking away everything that made him him. His skin is mottled and green-grey and he reaches for her with rotted hands and teeth, and Andrea scrabbles along the dashboard to try to get away, eventually landing in an undignified heap in the passenger seat, the truck’s dash suddenly infinitely longer than it is in real life (she would know; trying to reverse-park Daryl’s truck is a nightmare).

Only when she gets to the passenger seat, it isn’t empty. Amy’s there, covered in blood and reaching for her sister with undead, vacant eyes. 

Screaming, Andrea tries to get away but the back seat of Daryl’s truck (which doesn’t exist in real life; the small space between the back of the cab and the front seats is full of hunting gear and a shotgun sling) is full of zombies: Lori with a bite mark on her horribly pregnant stomach; Rick minus the arm that always wielded his pistol; Glenn’s ear missing and his baseball cap hanging at a jaunty angle .... the list goes on until all the camp are there, reaching for her inside the too-small space. The only one missing is Daryl and as she begins to kick at the clawing hands and feet, her fists pummelling the glass she sees him running toward her, crossbow in hand, using his hunting knife to cut a swath through the ever-growing crowd of walkers. Eventually though, it’s too much even for him and she shrieks and sobs as she sees him go down, converged on by a melee of hungry hands and tearing mouths.

Its only when she feels teeth tear into her own flesh that she wakes up, sweating and screaming and sobbing and clawing at her sleeping bag, heart mouth so dry she can’t swallow and her heart racing so fast that she thinks she might be having a heart attack. 

When the tent flap suddenly bulges and she hears footsteps outside she begins crying in fright just as her hand closes around the knife in her hand, her mind flashing back to that horrible moment in the RV when she’d been forced to defend herself with nothing more than a screwdriver. 

When Rick’s concerned face appears through the flap she’s so relieved she forgets to breathe. 

“Bad dream.” She manages, inordinately grateful when Rick volunteers to do a quick patrol of camp, anyway. She tags along to dispel her own psychoses, and refuses Carol’s offer of sharing her tent for the rest of the night, but when she returns to her own tent and lies down on the now-cool sleeping bag, she doesn’t close her eyes for the rest of the night. Instead she lies ramrod straight with her gun in one hand and her knife in the other and only moving when she hears the others milling around outside as night turns to day and the sun pushes away the nightmares. She’s afraid of the night, afraid to close her eyes. 

The next day she’s irritable from lack of sleep and constantly on edge, visibly jumping whenever any of the other group try to approach her, quietly seething that something as mundane as a dream can have such a perverse influence on her and her waking interactions and routines. 

It’s Daryl who eventually calls her on it. “You alright?” He asks as he teaches her how to skin and gut the deer he’s spent the past two days tracking through the forests.   
He’s spent the past few weeks teaching her to hunt and track so they’ve spent more time together than they had before. It’s nice, actually, nicer than she thought it would be and nicer than she had any real right to expect after shooting him. Daryl isn’t much for small talk but they find themselves drawn into it anyway. Except for now. Now she doesn’t want to talk to anyone, which is why she readily agreed to help him gut the deer. At the very least she might learn something. Plus, he hasn’t been around to hear her screams or see her skittishness. 

Daryl’s watching her; she can feel his eyes on the side of her face. “Ya look kinda spooked.” He’s missed everything but she can tell from the way Carol’s mumbled to him that the rest of the group are worried about her.

“I’m fine.” Andrea says, her eyes on the dead animal in front of her. Its hoisted up in the tree, its back legs bound together. She knows how it feels, or rather, how it would feel if it were still alive. Its lying here dead and all she can see are the dead hands and arms of her friends. 

“Well, ya look spooked.” When Daryl sinks the knife into the dead animal and begins to cut downwards, Andrea fights the urge to put her hand over her mouth. When the smells of blood, organs, offal and worse fill the air, despite everything that she’s seen and done she thinks that she might puke. 

“First time ya smell it, it’s always bad.” He says, a note of kindness in his voice. 

Its not until they’re ripping the skin off its hide that he tries again. “Carol said ya had a nightmare last night.” He said. “Says you screamed so loud ya woke up the camp.”

Andrea’s cheeks colour slightly. “Um, yeah.” She says eventually, for the first time ever wishing that he’d just shut up. She asked him to teach her how to gut and skin an animal because she knew he wouldn’t want to chat. And now he’s doing just that. 

He can clearly read her mind, because he says, “Don’t shoot the messenger, alright? Carol asked me to ask you because you’ve been on edge all day and she’s worried.”

Andrea gives him a single nod in response. It makes sense that Carol would worry about her and not ask her directly. It makes sense that she would ask Daryl and that Daryl would do it for her. He hasn’t been able to refuse Carol anything since Sophia walked out of the barn. Andrea hopes he isn’t trying to make up for what he sees as his failure to return her daughter to her. He doesn’t have anything to make up for. He searched for her when no-one else would. Her mind flashes back to her dream again; at his futile attempts to get to his truck ... she resolves not to tell him about that. Even if it was just a dream she doesn’t want him to know that the one time she dreamt about him, she needed him and he wasn’t there. She isn’t that cruel. 

“I uh .... I got stuck in your truck.” She says. “It was uh ... full of zombies.” She adds, coursing Daryl for building such a comforting silence. “The zombies were, ugh ... us.” She says. “Lori and Rick and Glenn – everyone else.”

He nods once. “How’d they get in the truck?” He asks nonchalantly. 

“I have no idea.” Andrea replies shortly. What does it matter how they got in the truck? It was a dream!!! “It just ... spooked me.” Spoken out loud, in the cool Georgia fall afternoon, with Daryl’s large, protective presence next to her, Andrea can feel her dream’s grip breaking free, its malfeasance fading with each word uttered. Now she thinks it just sounds silly. 

“Yeah.” Daryl says knowingly. “Had a few dreams like that myself. Echoes afterwards, right? Stays with ya long after it should?”

“Right.” Andrea agrees, surprised at his remark. She hadn’t expected such ... understanding? Acceptance? Either way, its a pleasant surprise and she can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s sincere. She wonders what kinds of dreams echo around Daryl’s brain, if there’s anything that spooks him that badly he wants to sleep with the proverbial light on? What would Daryl Dixon classify as a nightmare that echoes? 

It’s not until later, when they all retire to their own tents, their stomachs so full of deer that they can barely move, that she feels that fear prickle at the base of her neck. She doesn’t want to go to sleep.

“I ain’t gonna let anyone turn into walkers while you’re asleep.” Daryl murmurs in her ear as he walks past her. “And I ain’t gonna let ‘em in my truck, either.” He throws a half-smile over his shoulder before disappearing into the tent next to hers. 

That night, it takes Andrea a long time to fall asleep but when she does her sleep is deep and dreamless. No Daryl, no Shane, no walkers. Just ... nothing. The next day, the fear of the previous day is gone, even if the anxiety remains. When she wakes up during the night to take a bathroom break, her steps are punctuated by the light, comforting snores that emanate from the adjacent tent. Its oddly comforting, to know that he’s right there, only ten paces away. Maybe that was all she had needed to begin with. 

###

The second time they kiss, it’s because of tradition. 

Its winter, there’s snow on the ground and they’ve taken refuge in a small cluster of holiday homes overlooking a lake, somewhere in southern Georgia. There’s enough for them to all have one each and as much as Andrea knows that Carol was hoping they could share a home, she’s enticed by the prospect of once more having four sturdy walls to call her own. There isn’t much more than a bedroom, kitchenette/living area and bathroom, but the walls are thick and the windows are small and the doors are sturdier than her flimsy tent. Daryl takes the house next to hers, but he doesn’t spend much time there and she guesses that he must be finding it hard to re-adjust to living within four walls and a roof. She’s never met anyone more at ease with nature than he is. 

Her nightmare hasn’t returned but instead it’s been replaced by a nightmare of a different sort: her kiss with Daryl has started to make a reappearance. Not often, to be sure, but often enough to make her slightly embarrassed around him the next day. Her embarrassment usually fades by lunchtime once she realises that her dreams are just a manifestation of the time they spend together and her frustration at having not been kissed in a long time, but then, seven or ten nights later, the dream returns. Sometimes it’s a minor sideshow to the main event (grocery shopping in her underwear, for example, or felling trees with Rick) or its the main event itself (a whole dream devoted to nothing other than the curve and twist of Daryl Dixon’s mouth? Seriously? She must really be desperate for a kiss if she can make it last that long), but either way it’s enough to make her pick up a book on dream analysis when they pillage a shopping centre for supplies. 

Daryl smirks when he sees her reading it, but says nothing.

It takes some adjustment but they finally get used to their own space again, to hearing only their own voices, the sounds of their own footsteps and breathing, to not having to watch every word they say for fear that someone else might be privy to gossip through flimsy walls. Not that that has ever posed a problem for their group, who seem to have managed to make ‘show and tell’ an Olympic sport. 

Andrea lies in bed at night and alternates between staring at the securely bolted door or the ceiling, straining her ears to hear that light snoring to which she has grown so accustomed. The silence is so quiet that its deafening and she wonders if the end of the world has cured her of her anti-social behaviour. Back in Florida she could go for days at a time without seeing another human being. She would sit in her apartment and watch TV, or cook, or do housework, or read, or do any other solitary activity and be perfectly happy doing so. Now she finds herself missing the background noise as much as she enjoys the privacy.

Slowly, they all begin spending more and more time in Lori and Rick’s house. 

It makes sense in a way; theirs is the biggest house, has the most room and the best kitchen, and Rick is still their de facto leader, still the one they look up to although Andrea’s noticed that Daryl’s word is as good as gold with most of them too. He’s listened to and respected and each day that seems to grow. Not least because he’s turned into their human calendar, using the moon and the stars and the world around them to point out what time of year it is. 

Until one day, its Christmas and a festive spirit fills their camp and once they’re stuffed full of rabbit and deer and watching a crackling fire they all begin to wish each other a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, since even Daryl’s calendar isn’t that precise. 

“Merry Christmas!” Andrea exclaims as she kisses Rick, Lori, Carol, Glenn and the others in turn, even Shane, until she gets to the end of her line and Daryl’s standing right there, his cheeks flushed crimson as Carol and Lori both plant a simultaneous kiss on either side of his face. 

Eventually Andrea and Daryl are the only ones who haven’t kissed. 

If she doesn’t kiss him then she’s going to look either psycho or a total bitch given how he spent the past two weeks helping her repair a damaged section of her new home, not including all the time they’ve spent together while he’s been teaching her how to track, hunt and use his crossbow. 

If she does kiss him then she doesn’t think she’ll ever get another good night’s sleep. 

But he’s standing there looking at her, clearly braced for another forced tactile engagement and she realises that he might actually be offended if she doesn’t kiss him.

Okay, fine.

“Merry Christmas, Daryl.” She says, her voice softening imperceptively as she leans up to kiss him on the cheek. 

She misjudges the distance just as he turns to mumble something, and instead of landing on his cheek her lips land squarely on his. They’re soft but immobile with shock and feel and taste surprisingly similar to how she dreamt (literally) they would, although his skin is rougher and his stubble softer. She vaguely aware of others crowding around the dinner table but their sound is drowned out by the blood rushing through her head and short-circuiting her brain. It’s like a million little fireworks are consecutively exploding inside her head and she feels her knees begin to soften. Eventually, she steps back and breaks away, their lips gently popping as she breaks contact. Its been a few seconds at most but it feels more like minutes. 

“Uh, Merry Christmas.” She says softly, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her lips, which are tingling in a way they haven’t for a long time. She can feel her cheeks begin to colour and when her eyes meet his she seems the same confusion and embarrassment registered there.

“Um ... yeah.” He says, his own cheeks beginning to turn a little pink and Andrea can’t help but wonder when was the last time he had a girl kiss him. “You too.”

###

The third time they kiss they’re drunk. Not merrily tipsy, or slightly giggly, they’re drunk: full-on, hard-liquor, not-been-this-drunk-since-college drunk. 

Its the same night as their Christmas-New Year party and they’re all stuffed full of food and enjoying their one moment of festive cheer. It’s snowing outside which seems to have worked wonders for the walker population (Andrea can’t remember the last time she saw one but that doesn’t stop Rick and Shane from scouting around the area in-between their deer and dessert, just to be safe) and for the first time, everyone feels a little more relaxed, like they can breathe easy. Even Daryl’s relaxed some; Andrea can see it in the way his shoulders droop a little more, the way his eyes have softened as he glances around the camp. He’s still blunt and short-tempered and rarely goes anywhere without his crossbow or hunting knife, but his temper’s evened itself out now, by and large. She isn’t sure if it’s because he’s resigned to staying here, at least until the spring, or if he wants to stay here, or if he too is sick and tired of running, or if his brother’s toxic grip loosens with every passing day and allows him to complete the process of becoming an independent, if damaged, human being in his own right. A few days ago she caught him wheeling Merle’s bike into an outbuilding before securing it with tarp and she felt something indescribably sad grip at her insides as she sees the way his fingers linger on the slender ropes holding the tarp ends together. Does this mean that he’s not going to search for his brother, that he’s staying here for now, at least until the spring? Has he finally accepted that his brother’s gone and isn’t coming back to claim his motorcycle? Or has he decided to throw his lot in with them for good, now? She doesn’t ever think about Merle (and if she does then it’s with a barely-repressed shudder) but she can’t imagine how difficult it must be for Daryl to cover what remains of his brother with a plastic tarp and leave it here in this cold, neglected outhouse. 

She doesn’t remember just how or why it happens, exactly. Only that it happens. There’s liquor involved, obviously; it’s hard to get drunk without booze, and Daryl, Glenn and Maggie had come back from a recent supply run with a crate of high-alcohol liquor, a rare commodity these days. Daryl figures that they’ll be able to use it for fires if they get really desperate, but it doesn’t take long for the rest of them (the tracker and hunter included) to begin to dig into the liquor. It’s probably not the best idea but it’s been so long since they had a break that no-one really wants to say no once the smell of bourbon is in the air. Of course, for most people it’s been some months since they had a drink and it doesn’t take long for everyone to feel the effects. Shane and Rick and soon (perhaps sensing that he’s something of a fifth wheel) T-Dog are patrolling, Lori and Carl have already retired to bed and Carol isn’t much of a drinker, and soon it’s just her, Daryl, Maggie and Glenn, both of whom live on the other side of their encampment to Daryl and Andrea. 

They bob and weave back to their respective houses, talking about anything and nothing until they’re outside her front door and Andrea feels about seventeen again, saying a tentative goodnight to a date she doesn’t really want to end. 

“Well, uh ... goodnight.” She says, leaning back against the door and trying hard not to stare too hard at the blue eyes and lush mouth that has haunted her dreams for weeks. 

“Yeah. ‘night.” He says, his eyes boring into hers before slowly wandering down to her mouth. 

The rest of their interaction is hazy at best until his mouth’s on hers and her hands are fisting his t-shirt and she drags him into her house, his boot kicking her door shut with a resounding slam. He pauses only to make sure that the deadbolt is driven home and she smiles at his need for safety, even now. He tastes like alcohol and smells like crossbow lubricant and his lips move across hers as though he has been kissing her for months and knows the grooves and contours of her mouth better than he knows his own. When her hands slide up to his neck and entangle themselves in his hair he growls into her mouth and lifts her up on to the small dining table just behind them, moving her as though she weighs nothing. 

Things are just starting to get interesting when there’s a knock on Andrea’s front door and voices outside. “Andrea?” Its Rick’s voice and the concern there is enough to kill their drunken frenzy stone dead. “You seen Daryl?”

The pair exchange stares that’s part-frustrated, part sheepish. She can’t lie, after all, and if she tells them where Daryl is then Rick will know that something’s going on. Eventually, Daryl nods once and - in a gesture that’s curiously gallant – holds his hand out for her to take so he can help her off the dining table that nearly became the site of a rather frenzied sexual encounter. 

“Yeah, Rick.” Andrea says, sliding the deadbolt back and opening the door. “He’s here.”

Rick glances from Andrea to Daryl and back again before nodding once. If he’s surprised or perturbed by their swollen lips and the red rash that Andrea can feel burning its way across her cheeks, then he doesn’t show it. Instead he merely says, “Shane and I found a walker stuck in the river. Figured we’d need your help in case there’s more of ‘em.” 

“Sure.” Daryl nods once, completely at ease while Andrea thanks her lucky stars that it’s dark so neither man can see how much she’s blushing. 

“Great. I’ll uh .... give you guys a minute to, uh .... grab your gear.” He says, the first hint that he’s aware of just what he’s stumbled upon. 

Later that night, the walker disposed of and Shane, Rick and Daryl patrolling around the camp, Andrea lies in her bed in her simple wooden house and tries not to think about stolen Christmas kisses with a man who is nothing like she expected, and wonders just what she might have gotten herself into. 

The next day, she’s using the last of her toothpaste to clean her teeth when there’s a knock at her front door. When she opens it she’s surprised to find Lori Grimes standing there, her hand resting on her ever-expanding stomach, clearly visible despite the many layers of winter clothing that she wears. 

“Lori, hey.” Andrea said, gesturing that she come inside.

“Hey.” Lori said, her smile warm but tired. Half the time, Andrea isn’t sure what to make of Lori (she’s willing to bet, for example that the baby growing inside Rick’s wife is Shane’s, but has long since learned that that is one drama she really doesn’t want to be a part of, not when she’s clearly perfectly capable of creating her own), but there’s no mistaking the nervousness that surrounds the pregnant woman standing before her. 

“I, uh .... I was awake when Rick came back from patrol this morning.” She said softly, giving Andrea a knowing stare. 

“You were, huh.” Andrea replies, barely able to speak through the toothpaste still in her mouth. She probably looks like she has rabies, or psychosis, or some other condition that makes her foam at the mouth. Or maybe that’s just what kissing Daryl Dixon does to a girl. She fights the urge to giggle at that. 

“He uh .... he mentioned that you were, uh .... out of toothpaste.” Lori finishes, thrusting a nondescript white paper bag at Andrea before waddling away. 

Nonplussed but intrigued, Andrea closes and locks the door and tips the contents of the bag onto her bed. 

Lori may not have the best judgement when it comes to men (but then, maybe Andrea doesn’t either), but as she stares at the toothpaste and box of condoms on the bed, she realises that Rick’s wife might be a hell of a lot more perceptive and forward-thinking than Andrea gives her credit for

###

The fourth time they kiss, it’s nothing but frantic, sad passion, like they’re trying to crawl inside each other’s hearts and minds as well as their bodies.

She should have known that their idyll couldn’t have lasted much longer. 

It’s a few days after Christmas and New Year, the frost is still on the ground and Daryl predicts that they might get some more snow when a scream slices through their tranquil morning. 

Dropping the work that she has been doing and grabbing her gun, Andrea tears out of her house and heads towards the sounds of the screams coming from the small artificial slip road that leads to the forest and the river beyond. She can hear heavier footfalls beside and behind her and when she glances back she can see Daryl and Shane running behind her, weapons in their hands. Ahead of her she can see Maggie and Glen appear through the forest, half-carrying, half-dragging another figure between them, and a cold, hard fist forms inside when she remembers that the pair of them had ventured down to the river to help Carol with the washing now that Lori was just getting too big to leave the camp. 

“Ambushed by walkers!” Glenn wheezes as Rick and T-Dog take the bleeding, unconscious woman under the arms, shouldering her weight. Lori stands on the sidelines, clutching Carl’s shoulders, her hands over her mouth and her sobs ricocheting around their camp. 

“Oh, Carol!” She wails as she watches the two men manoeuvre the unconscious, bleeding woman into the nearest house. 

“What happened?” Daryl’s voice is tight and controlled as he moves to Glenn and Maggie, his face contorted with pain and Andrea feels tears slip down her face when Daryl grabs the younger man’s shoulder and shakes it. “What happened to her!”

“Walkers.” Glenn says, his voice trembling and distant to Andrea’s ears. “Three of them, they came from nowhere ... they were too fast. Maggie got the first one but ....” He shakes his head and yanks his baseball cap off his head, wiping his face using the brim. 

“Carol never had a chance.” Maggie said softly, slinging her arms around Glenn’s shoulders. “They were on us before we could react.”

Daryl’s quiet for a moment before speaking again. “We all got sloppy, bein’ here.” He says, his voice flat with resignation as he stalks towards the house, ready to face someone else he feels like he failed. “We let ourselves forget they’re out there. Three months ago we would never have been caught like this.”

“It’s only recently that patrols have been relaxed.” Dale tries to remind him. “We all talked about it once we realised that walkers can’t move through the snow. We can’t maintain a constant state of alert or vigilance. There just aren’t enough of us.”

“Like hell we can’t!” Daryl snaps. “We’re hidin’ out here livin’ in houses, celebratin’ Christmas and forgetting why we’re out here in the first place!”

“No-one’s forgetting, son.” Dale tries to calm the tracker down but to no avail. 

"I ain't your son, old man!" Daryl exclaims. "Don't you try to talk me down about how we lost someone else!"

Eventually, Andrea steps in. “Come on, Daryl.” She says, trying to cajole him. “Let’s go see how Carol is.”

“How she is!” Daryl explodes at her, then. “She’s been bit, Andrea! She’s a timebomb, just like every other poor bastard who ended up walker food!”

“I know what it means!” Andrea retorts. 

“I think that we should all just calm down for a moment.” Dale tries to interject then. “Go and see if Carol needs anything.”

Carol lingers for two days in a state of slowly metastasising undeath, and everyone takes turns to hold her increasingly clammy hand and wipe at her sweaty, cold skin. They each sit with her for a few hours each day; Carl brings her drawings, Lori reads to her from the few books they have, while Andrea and the others just talk to her, tell her about their days. Only Daryl is a constant presence in the room, either sat on an uncomfortable wooden chair by the side of the bed or pacing the room, waiting for the inevitable and Andrea wonders at the tenacity he exhibits when it comes to the Peletier women. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that both women cry out for someone to protect them in ways that Ed couldn’t and hadn’t, but with Daryl it seems to be something else, something deeper which she isn’t sure how to describe. Since Sophia’s death he’s been different and she fears that when Carol eventually succumbs to the horrible fate that is awaiting her, he will be different again. 

They haven’t mentioned their kiss, haven’t talked about it. It’s like it never happened. Andrea doesn’t even dream about it anymore. 

Its early morning when Carol dies for the first and – thanks to Daryl – the last time. The sun’s only just poking through the sky and the ground is still hard and cold and covered in frost. Daryl and Andrea wrap her body in the sheet that covered the bed and take her outside, where Daryl once again uses his axe to make sure that she doesn’t come back. As it has so many times before, the axe cleaves through the skull with too much ease, splattering blood, skull and bone along the white frost on the ground. 

They bury Carol away from their houses but not so far that they can’t cast a glance out of the window and see her. The ground is so hard it takes them some time to dig her grave, the others silently looking on, offering moral rather than physical support, clearly sensing that this is something Daryl needs to do and Andrea doesn’t want him to do alone. Only when the pair finally climb out of the hole and reach for Carol’s body do they move towards the sad hole spilling brown dirt out of the ground. Rick and Dale both try to say a few words but eventually vie up, their words sounding hollow to their own ears. Indeed, Andrea wonders as she clenches and unclenches her fists to get some feeling back into her numb fingers, what would they say? Carol’s happiest days were probably the short interval between Ed’s death and Sophia’s disappearance; before then her life was one of cruelty and neglect, culminating in a soul-shattering loss followed by a brutal, agonising end. 

Only once the grave is filled in and the remaining bed sheets burned do they leave the graveside, moving in unison, neither speaking. They move together without having to talk about where they’re going or what they’re going to do. Andrea opens her front door and stalks inside, Daryl hot on her heels. He pauses only to shut and lock the door behind them, as he had done only a few nights before. 

Andrea walks into her bedroom, pausing only to take off her boots and socks and unzip her coat. Her sweater, shirt and jeans soon follow and when she turns around he’s standing there in nothing but his heavy-duty work pants, staring at the last good bra that she has and is now wearing; a Victoria’s Secret limited edition jade green balcony bra that clashes with her plain yellow cotton briefs, which stands in stark relief to her stark white skin and the awful situation. For a long moment they do nothing but stare at each other, both physically and mentally stripped down to almost nothing. With a slightly trembling hand, Daryl reaches for her, his hand resting on her bare shoulder. His hands are like ice on her skin and they make Andrea jump from nerves and the cold. 

His mouth brushes against hers then, the kiss full of desperate sadness and frantic need for affection and affirmation that they and the other are both still alive, that there’s something more in this world other than pain and death and suffering for a woman whose only fault was that she picked an asshole for a husband and couldn’t get away.   
His mouth never leaving hers, he pushes her down onto her bed, the sheets still rumpled from the night before when she tossed and turned, unable to sleep. 

While his hands are cold his body is deliciously warm and the early morning sun that peaks through the window throws watery warm colours onto his body. His skin is covered in scars both small and big, scars that she tries to touch and he trembles when she does. They kiss as though they’re trying to crawl inside the other to escape for a little while. Clothes, skin, hands, even air – it all seems a barrier to getting ever-closer. 

By the time they’re done its well into the evening, Andrea’s mouth is on fire from his kisses and they’ve made a substantial dent in Lori’s box of cautionary condoms. 

###

The fifth time they kiss, it’s also a nightmare.

Andrea’s dreaming again; she’s running through the forest in the snow (at least this dream is more mindful of the seasons), her bare feet are numb with the cold and she can feel the stones and trigs digging into her skin, slowing her down. She can hear the walkers behind her: Shane, Rick, Lori, Glenn – they’re all there this time, slowly gaining on her. Once again the only one missing is Daryl. Her pistol’s in her hand but there’s no bullets and she discards it, glad to be rid of its useless weight. 

There’s a hill in front of her and she falls onto her hands and knees as she scrabbles up it, barely out of reach of the snapping jaws and clawing hands. Eventually she makes it to the top of the hill where she finds herself in a field filled with dead corn and snow, the stalks taller than she is. It spans for miles and miles, further than she can see. Going through it is no option and the only option. Taking a deep breath, she barrels through it using her arms and her head, the corn stalks frantically shaking long-dried husks and snow all over her head. Behind her, she can hear the walkers ascend the hill in pursuit, quickly gaining on her thirty-second head start. No matter how fast she tries to run, it’s never enough. She feels like she’s moving through glue. She trips and stumbles and falls down, landing face-down in a pile of old husks and snow, clawing at the solid cold ground. Behind her she can see the stalks moving as the reanimated remains of her friends and family move through the cornfield, searching for her, searching for their next meal. 

“Andrea!” Her head snaps up then as she hears a familiar voice calling her name. “Andrea!” There it is again. 

“Daryl!” She calls, pulling herself to her feet and running towards the voice. “Daryl! Daryl its me!” She calls again and again, propelling herself forwards as fast as she can, her legs moving almost like one of those characters in the cartoon shows she used to watch on the TV as a kid. Eventually all she’s aware of are her legs thrashing and arms on her shoulders, shaking her as Daryl calls her name. 

“Andrea – Andrea, hey, calm down – wake up!”

“No, no, Daryl, DARYL!” She shrieks, knocking away the arms on her shoulders, but its enough to jolt her out of her dream and she shoots bolt upright in the bed, the blankets falling away from her body. Despite the cool night her skin is hot and wet with sweat, condensation beading at her hairline and dampening her hair. 

Its takes a few minutes for her heart to calm and her head to stop pounding, and she realises that she had been dreaming. It had all been a dream. Sagging against herself, she puts her head in her hands and chokes out a sob. 

“Bad dream?” Daryl’s voice next to her makes her jump, and she jerks away from him, clutching the sheet to her body. 

“You – you’re here?” She says, her eyes narrowing slightly. 

Now he looks really confused. “Uh, yeah.” He says, as though its the most natural thing in the world. “You asked me to.” 

“I did?” She glances at him before glancing down at herself, memories of the previous night flooding through her. Suddenly them both being completely naked and lying in a tangle of limbs makes so much more sense. “I did, I’m sorry.” She says. Slowly, she eases herself back against the sheets, forcing her breathing to slow down. To her immense surprise, her body fits snugly against his. 

“Bad dream again, huh?” Daryl says.

“Yeah.” 

“You were thrashin’ around, callin’ my name.”

Andrea flushes in the dark. “I, uh .... I was being chased by walkers.” She says softly. “You were calling my name, I couldn’t get to you.”

“Yeah, you were kicking and flailin’ around. Woke me up.” He grumbles. 

“I’m sorry.” She bites her lip before saying, “you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” 

He doesn’t answer, and they’re silent for a few minutes until Daryl speaks again, his voice soft in the cool night air. “Ya wanna try closin’ your eyes again? Promise I’ll stay awake.”

“Maybe.” She says. “In a little while.”

She stares at him for a long moment, taking in the sleepy eyes and mussed-up hair. She’s never seen him look like this before. It isn’t a sight she ever thought she’d see but now she’s here its kinda nice. It’s a sight she could get used to. 

She kisses him then, but it’s nothing like before. There’s no animal passion or all-encompassing sadness, no drunken fumbling or enforced traditions. Its soft and reassuring, something she never thought she’d find from him. Its shy and unsure, as though he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing or what she wants. She isn’t sure herself, but when he gently nudges her with his hip and rolls her onto her back, she realises that she doesn’t need to think about it right now. 

The fifth time they kiss might have been after a nightmare, but this time, he pulls her out of it and doesn’t let her go.   
FIN.


End file.
